


Poison

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Series: There Are More Things In Heaven and Earth, Horatio [1]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, I don't even know how this happened to be honest, Incubus!Richelieu, M/M, Repressed Homosexual Treville, mentions of catholicism, one thousand words of almost smut, the usual overuse of italics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4807652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was something about Richelieu. Something about Treville, too, but Treville preferred not to think about that. But Richelieu moved like poison and like silk and though Treville knew he wasn't supposed to---knew he shouldn't---<br/>Treville wanted.</p><p>AKA, the Incubus!Richelieu fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts).



 

This was not how it was supposed to turn out. This was never even a possible outcome. It never should have happened. He was supposed to have returned back to the barracks alone, after discussing matters of state. He was not supposed to stay in the Palais Cardinal, drawn into the chambers of this...thing.

“It won’t hurt, Captain, I promise.” His smile was wicked and dark but thrilling. No. Not thrilling. Sacrilegious. “I’m not that sort.”

His breath was warm and moist on Treville’s neck, sinfully reminiscent of a kiss. Yet he did not touch him, save for how his hands held Treville’s wrists, save for how Richelieu trapped him against the wall.  

He would not give in, he told himself. He wouldn’t want to, he told himself. What Richelieu wanted from him was sick. The work of the devil. He shouldn’t.

(But oh, did he _want_.)

“You have something I want, Captain. Really, you ought to let me take it.” He moved like sin and poison, close enough to touch but far away enough to not be touching. “I grow sick of waiting.”

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He was not an invert, not a sodomite. To be so close to Richelieu disgusted him. (But if that was true, why did his breath catch whenever Richelieu leaned closer?)

(He had spent so long trying to pretend. He was not giving up now.)

He was on the path for the righteous and the brave and the true. He wouldn’t give in. Not to petty seductions from faith. He would never. (But please, please, just a little bit closer.)

“You’ve never been with another before.” It was not a question. “I can smell it on you. Purity. So strong I can almost _taste_ it.” Richelieu’s breath on his neck again, a promise.  

(He had tried with women. He had tried. Again and Again and again. Each time hoping that this time, he would be cured, he would be fine. But eventually he just gave them their money and left.)

“I can’t give you what you need until you say yes, Treville.”

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.  He was a good man. A good man. A good man would not tumble from the path of the righteous when faced with temptation. A good man would slip out of Richelieu’s grasp and go, a good man would find a priest----a real priest----and exorcise the terror which controlled a man who had once seemed so holy. A good man wouldn’t swoon in the creature’s grasp, silently begging. Wouldn’t bare his throat and bite his lip bloody to stop from saying Please.

“You’ve held on far longer than I expected, Treville.” He murmured from next to his collarbone. “I thought you would’ve cracked after the dreams.”

The dreams. Oh, the dreams. Of course those would have been a creation of Richelieu’s too, filthy (wonderful) dreams where every night was a testament to their passion, where every horrible fantasy Treville had ever shamefully thought was played out in endless detail.

If only Treville’s entire condition was a mere mirage created by Richelieu, like the dreams. If only they were something that he would snap the minute the demon disappeared from his life. But alas, this had gone on ages before Richelieu, and would continue on ages afterward. Treville would not give in. Not for something even as insignificant as a kiss. No, to kiss this black-souled creature would be to pass the point of no return; to kiss Richelieu was to give up every hope for his immortal soul.

(Neither of them would be satisfied with a kiss.)

“I grow weary of our dance, Treville.” He whispered, the ghost of a kiss so close to Treville’s lips. “Give in. You won’t be disappointed.”

He shivered, staring down this blue-eyed monster. “You were supposed to be a Cardinal,” he said, instead of any sharp retort which should have graced his tongue.

A laugh. “Lots of men are things they’re not supposed to be.” He said. “You, for example, would be the perfect Captain of the Musketeers.” A smirk slided onto his face. “If only you didn’t want me.”

“I don’t.” He did. When had he stopped biting his lip? His tongue darted out across the raw flesh; Richelieu followed it with his eyes.

“Yes, you do.” Their faces were mere millimeters apart. How could Richelieu bring them so close, yet still never manage to touch?

Every inch of him was alight with need. It wouldn’t be so hard. They were so close. He could kiss him, and it’d be like it never happened. No. He mustn’t.

“Say yes.” Against his ear now. Like a whisper between lovers.

He wanted.  He wanted so badly. A keen, high and embarrassing escaped from him. Richelieu only laughed. Treville’s heart raced in his chest, increasing exponentially with every inch they grew closer. He wanted.

“Why not?” There was Richelieu again, speaking against him like sin itself.

“You’re a monster.”

“Incubus. Not quite.”

He wouldn’t have been surprised if lust had only become a sin after Richelieu, wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been the creator of sodomy himself. It seemed like something he would do, when he wasn’t pushing Treville up against the wall and almost-nearly-not-quite kissing him. It would have been fitting if he were, fitting that Treville’s fatal flaw would have started (and _ended_ ) with him.

He should have known there was no going back now. Should have known the moment  Richelieu cornered him today. Should have known it earlier, when the dreams began and every morning he woke up panting, seeking out someone who wasn’t there.

“Please,” he whispered, he begged, despite all his protests before. “Damn it, Richelieu, _please._ ”

That damnable smirk was back---why was he not kissing him? Was this his plan all along, make him hot and bothered and push him up against the wall only to leave him there after damning himself with a word? “Please what?” He said, and oh.

_“Yes.”_

He kissed like it was a war, pushing Treville into submission. Suddenly there were hands everywhere, releasing his wrists and tearing open his shirt. Treville’s own hands awkwardly entangled themselves in Richelieu’s hair, around his neck.

If this was hell then it was worth it.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> how??? did this happen??? I was sitting outside and then suddenly: yes, yes, demon! Richelieu seducing Treville. And then suddenly a thousand words of fic showed up.


End file.
